“Baron, someone wishes to see you.”
“I said I’m seeing no one. I’m only lightly injured and shaken—I need proper rest!”
“But—”
“No buts! I won’t say this twice!”
“The visitor claims his name is ‘Loki,’ my lord. He says… once you hear that name, you will surely agree.”
“Loki? Hah, who does he think he is! I am a member of the Kaesania Parliament, a proud imperial baron. How could I possibly accept a stranger so easily—”
Kaesania Central Hospital, a well-lit VIP ward.
Dressed in a hospital gown, the baron had just finished his dinner and was sitting on the bed preparing to read a book when his attendant suddenly pushed open the door, spoiling his mood.
The once elegant and genial man now glared fiercely, bloodshot eyes blazing, his expression so ferocious it looked as if he could devour an entire roasted chicken.
Just as the conversation between the baron’s anger and the attendant’s retreat seemed about to end, a third voice cut in.
A tall young man with black hair pulled the attendant out of the room and came straight to the baron’s bedside, followed by a silver-haired girl in a pure white dress like a little shadow tailing behind.
The attendant nervously swallowed, then quietly shut the door.
“Ah… so it’s you, Mr. Loki. Good evening.”
The baron immediately recognized the face that the upper echelons of Kaesania regarded as someone absolutely not to be trifled with. His previous irritation toward the servant vanished, replaced by his customary smile.
“Apologies for not recognizing you earlier.”
Backed by the “Black Sword,” a former Demon Lord wanted by the Empire, the Holy Church, other nations, and countless demi-human races alike, yet somehow able to live openly and normally within the Empire…
To Baron Freeman, this was not someone to bring bad luck upon himself.
In this world, no person with real power would tolerate others defecating on their head without consequence.
High nobles might get some leeway, but minor nobles like him, if they offended the wrong person, would be cut down along with imperial law.
So for minor nobles, knowing what those they cannot afford to offend look like is an essential lesson.
You don’t have to recognize your rulers, but you must know those who could kill you.
Loki observed the baron’s sudden change of expression with little emotion.
Imperial nobles were always like this; he was used to it—no different from those in his previous life who had a little power and couldn’t help but look down on others.
The only difference was that he could, within Christine’s tolerance, crush any humanoid creature that displeased him with no legal consequences.
However…
He glanced at Cerule.
If he wanted to, this side also had the authority to slap the other party hard.
It had to be said, Baron Freeman was perceptive.
Upon noticing Loki’s gaze toward Cerule, he realized that what he had thought was the main course was actually just an aperitif.
In some ways, Cerule’s appearance was far more terrifying than Loki’s.
The Holy Church’s Saintess was not a mere decorative figure for show or social events.
She only appeared publicly when faced with extremely dangerous heretics, large heretical organizations, or threats capable of destroying an entire city.
Baron Freeman didn’t dare guess what her purpose was in meeting him.
And, moreover, it was together with that… Loki.
What on earth was this? Had the Holy Church gone mad, or was he the one losing his mind?
But he no longer had time to ponder the relationship between Loki and Cerule.
“Saintess Your Highness, good evening.”
“The ward is nice and spacious. How are you finding your stay?”
Cerule immediately delivered a psychologically pressuring one-two punch.
“Cough… cough cough, Your Highness, you jest. This is a hospital ward… If I weren’t lightly injured, why would I leave my desk and bedroom?”
“Heh, seems you really do like to work… So, how was dinner?”
“I—just a simple meal, bland soup. Nothing worth mentioning.”
In truth, it had been a refined small-scale luxurious dinner.
Normally, if the visitor weren’t an Imperial Inspector, Baron Freeman wouldn’t need to be so cautious about his personal conduct.
But he still wanted to maintain the “noble” image he usually projected.
Still, feigning illness seemed more appropriate at the moment.
“Cough cough… As you both can see, I’m unwell and not really in a state to meet visitors properly. Can we keep this brief? May I ask what urgent matter two such distinguished guests seek from a mere baron?”
“Just some simple soft tissue bruising. I think it hardly warrants this hospitalization, Baron Freeman.”
Loki saw through the baron’s lie at a glance.
He hadn’t sustained any injury requiring bed rest—especially as a noble parliamentarian. Even if he lost a leg or an arm, he could afford the Empire’s most potent healing potions.
“Uh… well…”
“Rest assured, I’m not here to trouble you.”
Loki said expressionlessly.
“I just have a few questions.”
“But I—”
“I know what happened at noon. Without me and her present, you wouldn’t be lying in that bed right now—you’d be in a coffin.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying…”
“Baron Freeman, your act of feigning unconsciousness or playing dumb is far less convincing than your fake smile in the newspapers.”
Only then did Baron Freeman realize his hands and feet had been bound with white chains without him noticing, like a lamb awaiting slaughter.
Feigning, stalling, passing the buck… Loki was familiar with all such tricks.
He knew that with someone like this, the only way to kill the last remnants of hope was to put a knife to his throat and force him to talk.
Even without the intelligence Selene provided, he would have done the same—perhaps even more brutally.
Anyone colluding with heretics, no matter their background or reasons, once he bowed to them, was doomed.
“The one who attacked you was a witch. You know this witch—she even visited you, and you entertained her—ah, please don’t deny it first, or the Saintess here will break your hands and feet outright.”
Loki cracked his neck, then sat on the bedside as if visiting a family member, searching for the oxygen tube that could quickly end the suffering.
He pulled out the wanted poster Ina had given him and waved it before the baron’s eyes.
After confirming the man’s gaze, he put it away.
“That witch is suspected of having ties to the remnants of the Hand of Truth. Baron Freeman, I think you understand what that implies.”
At this point, the baron knew it was rude not to confess.
Moreover, he truly hadn’t expected that accursed witch would suddenly go mad and attempt to assassinate him in broad daylight.
So the baron hurriedly lunged forward, kneeling on the bed, trembling as he spoke.
“…Yes, sir. I admit, I have communicated with her before. She approached me, claiming she had a business proposition—to purchase and develop the land around the Adjudication Bureau’s branch! I—I really thought she was a normal person, so I just talked to her! Sirs, I am innocent!”